Diversity

 

Clark Kent Writes Back

 

It’s time again for the Poetry Sisters’ Challenge! Here’s the scoop, via Tanita’s blog: “We’re writing back to four Lucille Clifton poems, in her notes to clark kent series: “if i should;” “further note to clark;” “final note to clark;” and “note passed to superman.” We’ll be ‘in conversation’ with Ms. Lucille’s poems – talking to them, talking back to them, or talking about them, whether that’s all of them, or any of them, either in form or in substance.”

I think these responses work without reading Lucille’s poems, but just in case, take a minute to read what she said to Clark before you read what Clark wrote back.

Wordle-imericks

 

Sometimes I write a Wordle poem using my word choices, but I ALWAYS write a haiku (a Wordle-ku) if I get the answer in three guesses. (I rarely get the answer in three.)

I made up a new rule yesterday. If I get the answer in five, I will write a limerick. Or, as the case may be, a Wordle-imerick. (I often get the answer in five. Maybe this should be a suggestion, rather than a rule…)

3/12 party, laugh, mange, manga, mango

The party was held in Durango.
For a laugh, we danced a wild tango.
So wild we caught mange,
wrote a manga quite strange,
then went to the store for a mango.

(I didn’t say they’d always make sense. But I did get better.)

3/13 chair, champ, chalk, chase (yes, I broke the rule and used a four-word win)

There once was a child in a chair.
Said child had some gum in his hair.
He wasn’t a champ.
Chalk him up as a scamp
chased down with a threat and a glare.

3/19 glory, stare, shark, snark, spark

The ocean — a vast blue-green glory.
I stare at its unfolding story.
The fin of a shark,
and its sharp toothy snark
spark panic before beaches get gory.

Dilated

 DILATED

Devil’s in the details.
Ideally, anyway. But
Leave it to the Big Picture
Archetype to force us to
Try to see everything all at once
Even when we hardly
Dare to open our eyes.

(c) Mary Lee Hahn, 2025 

Grandma Hahn's Bread

 

Grandma (Clara) Hahn’s Bread

4 cakes compressed yeast

Almost a century separates us

and yet time compresses –

you are here with me

in my kitchen.

1 cup lukewarm water

I cup my hands around the story

that you once held infant me.

6 tablespoons sugar

It would have sweetened our lives

had the car wreck not happened –

my father anchored by family

my mother loved as a daughter

we children connected to ancestors

1 qt. skimmed milk

but all those possibilities were skimmed away

like the thick, rich cream

that rises to the top of the morning milking

brought straight to the kitchen from the barn.

4 tablespoons shortening

I made your bread once for Dad,

attempting to shorten the distance

that had formed between us.

It was good, he said, but

about 14 ¼ cups Mother’s Best

not the same as yours.

7 ½ teaspoons salt

It’s not the same as yours,

but this three-rise half-day project

is as close as I’ll ever get

to the flavor of your love,

Grandma Hahn.

© Mary Lee Hahn, 2025

...is a word

 

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Process

 

‘Prize Malted Brown’ by Owen Simmons from The Book of Bread (1903)

It was my turn to offer the challenge to the Inklings. Newly in love with the Public Domain Image Archive, I suggested that each poet plug a color into the search bar and use one of the images as her inspiration. Like Molly and Heidi, I found that searching for more esoteric colors like aubergine gave no results. So I searched “brown” and got this slice of “Prize Malted Brown” and a small poem about baking.

But that last line got me thinking about how baking bread is like writing, which is also “all process” and this draft happened:

Tanku

 

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Not Quite Black

 

Fire

 

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Labyrinth

 

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Labyrinth

Left, right, left
Around and
Back
Your eyes on the path
Rhythm of steps matching breaths
In, out, in
Now the curves
Tighten and you find yourself
Here

(c) Mary Lee Hahn, 2025 draft

Today's Wisdom

 

Haibun

 

Balance

 

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After E. D.

 

Emily Dickinson’s birthday was on 12/10 and this was the poem on The Writer’s Almanac. I borrowed all of Emily’s capitalized words (except the ones that begin the lines) and created this draft of a golden shovel:

Begin With a Sensory Experience

 

Two Versions

 

Photo by Cyndy Sims on Flickr

Ode to the October Garden

Tattered curtain of fennel.

 

Grape Hyacinth foliage in front of what was a Blazing Star

Mussels in Inverness